


I've already lost you once.

by fvartoxin



Category: Holy Musical B@man - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Canon Het Relationship, Context-heavy to the RP server this was previously a part of, Disabled Character, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of Jonathan Crane but he doesn't actually show up, Sorry to disappoint, but a healthier relationship because we said fuck it, but feel free to enjoy it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: It's not common that you have a lazy Sunday morning. Best enjoy it while you can.
Relationships: Candy/Scarecrow/Sweet Tooth, Candy/Sweet Tooth, Scarecrow/Sweet Tooth
Kudos: 1





	I've already lost you once.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to stick as close as I can to what characterizations people other than me established in Starkid Speaks before everything fell to ruin. Hence the occasional phonetic accent, specific names, and whatnot. Really I've just gone ahead and continued the story.

He distinctly remembers the last time he cried.

She’d called him a heartless bitch. He’d tried to kill himself again, and she’d distinctly called him a heartless bitch. Which, he supposed, had never exactly been wrong given his shakily managed Cluster B personality disorder. 

She’d been crying, too, but he’d moreso noticed the blonde hair fanning out around her shoulders, creating a halo effect as it caught the light from outside. Like gold. In that instant, Emily Cane once again was one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. The Greek Aphrodite, made his and his only. 

_How had he ever been stupid enough to let her go?_

That couldn’t happen again. He’d _die_ before he’d let that happen again. 

He stared then, and he stared now at her slumbering form, dwarfed against the cream and gray covers of his bedding. (She’d never been a tall woman, but everyone seemed smaller in slumber. Funny how that worked.) The bright pink T-shirt, one of his, at least made her stand out. He wouldn’t lie, he _had been_ more than starting to miss that. She’d vehemently deny that, here and there, what she’d been wearing was an article of his clothing. But it had always been in a joking, playful manner. Thankfully, they’d fit on her; although the few times Jonathan had stolen his favorite hat came to mind. 

Suddenly she stirred, and were it not for the irrational idea that his thoughts had woken her he wouldn’t have leaned away as he did. 

“Ugh. What time is it?” She didn’t bother to raise her head and check, eyes still overshadowed with the haze of sleep as they were. 

Silas squinted up at the wall clock, absentmindedly flipping a lock of undyed, brown-blond hair away from his remaining eye. With no ear to tuck it behind, it came to rest back where it had been, and he stifled a long, heavy sigh. “7 AM. Why?” 

At this she pursed her lips, heaved herself into a sitting position, and swept it out of the way for him. “Oh! Wow. Earlier than I thought. Just wonderin’ really.” 

He murmured a “Thanks,” and then let her continue. 

“Ya wanna go get breakfast or somethin’? Because if not I think I’m just gonna stay here for a while. I mean, you’re warm, the bed’s warm…it’s only practical,” she admitted, and shrugged one shoulder as she spoke. It was a poor excuse, but they’d both be hard-pressed to care. 

“Jon probably drank all of the coffee already,” he grumbled, noting the distinct lack of the Scarecrow’s presence in his room. Pity his hearing was no longer in any way good enough to catch the sound of the man softly swearing as he once again banged an ankle on the living room coffee table – which, by all accounts, really shouldn’t have been made from glass. But, ‘aesthetic or die’ was clearly a statement that was taken seriously in this home. 

“Does he just…” She frowned, ocean-blue eyes sharply focusing on the blankets at their feet. “I’ve always kinda wondered, but never thought to ask ‘cause of the whole ‘usually solitary’ thing. Does he just run on coffee? That doesn’t seem smart.” 

“Black coffee and toxin-drugged people whimpering for him to put them out of their misery,” he sniffed. For all they claimed not to be, some members of the Rogues Gallery were walking clichés. It was likely they would be for as long as they lived. But this version of Earth – not that any of them knew another soil than this, or would ever know – was a peculiarly-crafted one, with peculiar rules. 

“That makes sense. Still though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat anythin’ else but takeout. Apart from last night, that is.” She dwelled on the memory for a moment, and laughed. 

He straightened up against the headboard, and leaned over to grab his hat from where it hung on his nearby cane. Placing it atop his head, he began to affect a pompous, grandiose caricature of his other (yet again tentative) lover and friend’s bassy voice. “Cooking is a complete waste of time. Why bother, when you can spend what hours there are in the day kidnapping people and making them choke half to death on chemicals? Research trumps all.” Then he switched back into his normal register, “I’m amazed he hasn’t starved. Or had a stroke from all that sodium, come to think of it.” 

This elicited more laughter, and the young woman otherwise known as Candy slumped against her now-fiancé’s side, trembling as she attempted to draw breath. “ _Dove_ , I think ya just roasted him harder than he roasts Eddie. Okay, it’s not at all difficult t’roast Eddie because he makes it so easy, but still.” 

“Is it really difficult to make jokes out of any of us, _Sugar Baby_?” He tilted his head to the side, suddenly deep in thought. The hat began to slide off, and, wasting no time, he shot out a hand to catch it; it was promptly thrown back onto the cane. “I mean, look at me. Or anyone besides Jonathan Crane-slash-Edward Nygma, or you. Ignoring my own mental problems I’m, what,” he snorted, “just a more demented version of Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka, in the end? I’ve put all this effort into the world’s objectively stupidest theming, and yet in Gotham City there’ll always be someone with dumber ideas. I can take comfort in that, at least.” 

She too thought about this for a minute, and began combing through what was left of Silas’s hair with her fingers. “Ya got a point there.” Or, several points. “Hey, whatever happened with chumps like Condiment King anyway? Haven’t heard from him in a while, now that I think about it.” 

The chunk of fire opal on her ring finger cast green light onto the nearby wall, and he watched the phenomena for a few moments, wholly distracted. “What is he doing currently? I don’t know. Last I saw him? He was attempting to go legit. Feels weird to say, but I wouldn’t recognize him out of costume. For all I know, he could have been one of the hot dog vendors I saw downtown a few months ago.”

“Well, if he ain’t dead yet, good for him,” she replied in her usual chipper tone. “Hey. Ya plannin’ on redying this anytime soon? Even I’m not used to seein’ ya without blue hair anymore; not that that’s a bad thing.” 

“I might.” There was a certain amount of apathy to his tone. Then again, without the occasional pop of color in his life, who was he? Just another drab accountant, another cog in the wheel that was corporate. Snapping (if one could call it that) had been oddly freeing. Embezzling had _also_ been oddly freeing. Losing his entire fucking mind and succumbing to the mental illness that had marked him as a child? Sure, whatever. Yet, all of that seemed so long ago now. “I’ll decide eventually.” That was a true enough statement.

“It’s not like the world’s endin’ tomorrow,” Emily declared sagely, and tugged at a tangle in his hair that he in no way registered. “Ya got time.” 

He did indeed, but it never seemed to be enough. The older someone got, the faster the years seemed to pass by. So, numbly, he nodded; and leaned into her as much as she was leaning into him, their bodies becoming a blur of intertwined pink. “You know, I missed being the reason you looked at your phone and smiled.” 

“It was a year, ya doof. We both had,” she paused briefly, and grimaced. “Well, we both had some things to work out.” That was a bit of an understatement, but why reopen old wounds? Best not to think about any of that anymore, for both of their sakes. “So. I think ya should get some more sleep. Does a body good, like Harls used to say back when we had that thing. I’ll make sure Jon doesn’t break anythin’.” 

“You don’t have to, I can-“ 

“ _Nope_. I’m not gonna hear it, Si. Get some sleep. It’s Sunday, for Pete’s sake.” 

The warmth at his side dissipated as she got to her feet, and his singular eye tracked her as she made her way to the ensuite bathroom. “You spoil me.” 

“ _And it’s more than ya deserve_ ,” she teased, sticking her tongue out in a distinctly Selina Kyle-ish manner. Clearly the Sirens as a whole had been rubbing off on her over the years. “Now go to bed. I’ll be here when ya wake up.” 

He trusted that statement, lying back as he listened to the sound of running water.


End file.
